One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

I look edgily at Blackwell. Is this an attempt to parade me on his arm? To show me he has found a way past his shame?

But then I see it is more than that. Because after stilted introductions, Mrs Macarthur leads me into a drawing room where a fortepiano is sitting against one wall.

“Lieutenant Blackwell tells me you play,” she says.

I stare at the piano, hardly able to believe the sight of it pressed up against the wall. “Yes,” I manage. “At least, I used to.”

“A surgeon on the First Fleet brought it over with him,” says Mrs Macarthur. “When he returned to England he had no mind to take it back. The dear man left it for me.” She gestures to the instrument. “Please.”

For a long time, I don’t play. I just sit at the bench and stare down at the keys. I have left behind so much of who I once was, a part of me feels lost and unsure. I was a lady when I last sat at the keyboard. I don’t want my skills to have left me.

From somewhere deep in the house, I hear the ringing of servants’ bells, footsteps, children’s laughter. I feel almost unbearably small. I know well that following last night’s coup, Captain Macarthur has taken joint control of the colony. I am a factory lass sitting in the drawing room of the most powerful man in New South Wales.

I bring my hands to the keys. Lower my fingers into a deep, resonant chord. The sound feels oddly out of place with the forest encroaching on the window. But it brings a smile to my face. Brings a warmth to my entire body.

My fingers move, uncertain and imprecise, as they begin to remember this part of me. Faster they go, churning through preludes and fugues, and neat, rippling sonatas. And then a freeing improvisation that goes some way to easing the grief pressing down on my chest.

Blackwell enters the room. He sits beside me on the piano bench and watches my fingers move.

I stop playing, letting the silence settle. And I turn to face him. “Thank you. This means more to me than you could know.”

A nod. “Of course.” He puts a hand to my wrist. “We ought to leave if I’m to get this letter back to the ship in time.”

When we are gliding back down the river, I say, “Are you not to leave New South Wales?” Blackwell’s farewell with Mrs Macarthur had been casual, brief. Not the farewell of a man leaving for the other side of the world.

His eyes drift towards the bushland on the edge of the river. The Owens’ hut is there somewhere with its bloodstained walls, being slowly devoured by the forest. Then he looks back to face me.

“Eleanor,” he says carefully, “I didn’t come to Sydney to find a ship back to England. I came to find you. To tell you the truth about Sophia. In hope that you might find some way to forgive me.”

I open my mouth to speak, but find nothing but silence. I had never questioned the fact that Blackwell was to leave. But had he ever said as much? Or had I drawn the conclusion on my own?

“That day at the Whaler’s Arms, you told me your ship was leaving in a fortnight.”

He looks at me pointedly. “And you told me you were to be married.”

“Oh,” I say. “I…” My unformed sentence trails off. The sailor leans on the tiller, easing the boat through the mangroves encroaching on the centre of the river. If he has heard our murmured conversation, his face gives nothing away.

Blackwell shifts forward on the bench, so his knees are inches from mine. “I know I will never make things right with Owen. It’s something I must live with.” He looks up to meet my gaze. “But perhaps I might begin to make things right with you?”

There is apprehension in his eyes; a certain shyness completely mismatched with the ruby gold brilliance of his uniform. That shyness makes my breath catch. Because for the first time, I see without doubt that I matter. That a factory lass with a bloodstained ticket of leave might be the difference between this officer staying in this place or sailing away.

But I also realise that I do not want that power.

I feel an unbidden happiness at the thought of him staying. But the lies he had told me are still there, not so far beneath the surface. Still I don’t know if I will be able to look past them.

“That choice must be yours,” I tell him. “I can make no promises.”

He nods. “Of course.” But the tiny smile that passes between us makes something warm in my chest.

Last night, I had trudged upstairs long after midnight. Crawled into bed beside Kate and stared out into the darkness. Something felt different about the place; an energy in the air, brought about by the governor’s demise.

I know that, in the aftermath of the Rum Corps’ coup, little will change for those of us at the bottom of the pile. The overthrowing of the governor was all for the benefit of the men at the top.

But things have been shaken, tipped from their axis. And if things can change at the top, perhaps one day they might also change at the bottom. Perhaps an officer and a factory lass might find a way to share a life.

And perhaps when the next barge of women comes gliding up the Parramatta River, they might find a safe place to sleep. Perhaps the next Irish lag to open his mouth will not be tied to the triangle and flogged until his back is raw.

Perhaps if we continue to speak, one day we may be heard.

HISTORICAL NOTE

Reverend Samuel Marsden’s